She stood up. He took her hand. His was warm and strong, and a great deal of her personality seemed to her to be in its clasp—too much indeed. His body fascinated hers, made her realize in a startling way that the coldness of which some men had complained had either been overcome by something that could burn and be consumed, or perhaps had never existed.
“You will not go to America without telling me?” he said.
“No, no. Of course not.”
“You told me first of your sorrow!”
“Why—why did I?” she thought, wondering.
“And you did not tell Dick Garstin.”
“No.”
“And you came here to me.”
“No, no! With you!”
“To my rooms in spite of your grief. We are friends from to-night.”